At 5:00 A.M. the next morning, the air inside the arena was so cold it burned my lungs.
I marched straight through the double doors, bypassing the equipment room entirely, and walked right up to the plexiglass.
Ryder was already on the ice, running suicide sprints. He turned sharply, his blades carving into the surface and spraying frost into the air.
I had no idea I was standing there, staring, until he looked up and our eyes met. He didn't stop though; he just continued with his drill.
Once he finished, he glided toward the boards and hit the glass right in front of me with a heavy thud.
He was breathing hard, sweat glistening on his forehead under the harsh arena lights. But the protective, intense guy from the storage closet yesterday was gone. In his place was the arrogant, unto
